by P A Duncan
“Yes, we would, and I’d have found a way to understand.”
“Are we over her?”
Her expression hardened a bit. “I can’t be holier than thou about it.”
Well, he thought, what does that mean? “Mai, no specifics, but were you deepening Carroll’s trust in you or spiting me?”
“Yes.”
“I trust you were stronger.”
“It’s not a matter of will, Alexei.”
“I understand that now. I’ve told you I love you, but living the words is more important than saying them. My commitment wavered. It won’t again.”
Emotion crossed her face, but she masked it quickly. She leaned down and kissed him, light kisses that lingered, ones they hadn’t shared in a long time.
In the hallway, Natalia glanced toward Mums’ and Popi’s room. The door was closed, and given the hour, they were probably asleep.
She tiptoed barefoot downstairs and on to the basement. At the door to Olga’s apartment, she raised her fist, hesitated, and tapped.
Olga didn’t answer. Natalia bit her lower lip. If she knocked harder, Mums might hear. Honestly, the woman had the sharpest ears, not to mention she must have eyes in the back of her head. She always knew when Natalia was up to something.
Her next knock was stronger. In a few seconds the door opened, and Olga stood there, hair rumpled from sleep, in dark blue pajamas that looked like a uniform.
“Did I wake you? I woke you, didn’t I?” Natalia asked, keeping her voice low.
“No matter. What is wrong? Is Bukharin all right?”
“I think they’re, like, sleeping. I… I need…” The emotions she’d held inside since Mai had sent her home from the Kennedy Center burst from her in a sob.
Olga came to her side and put an arm around her shoulders, ushering her inside. Olga steered her toward the sofa, and Natalia sat, Olga still beside her, her arm still around her. Olga was never, ever affectionate, and Natalia thought, I must really be losing it.
Olga dug about in the pocket of her pajamas and produced a folded handkerchief, white with teal, embroidered edging, purple flowers, and green leaves. It was so pretty, Natalia didn’t want to slime it up with her snot. And it was so not Olga.
“Go ahead. Is all right,” Olga said.
Natalia sniffed and only used it to dry her eyes.
“Now, what is wrong?” Olga asked.
“I know if I ask Mai… Mums, she won’t tell me, but what the hell do they do? I mean, they told me they work in refugee relief, but why did they send me home from the play? Why were they in Kansas City near that building? Why did my dedushka almost die?”
She started crying again, handkerchief pressed over her eyes.
“Try to calm down, malyishka. I will make chamomile tea.”
“No! I don’t want tea. I want answers.” Natalia lowered the handkerchief, twisting it in her hands.
“I will try to answer what I can, but I may not have the answers you want to hear.”
“Don’t you want to know why they were there? Unless… Do you know why they were there?”
Olga shrugged and said, “They called to tell me you were on your way home and mentioned something about emergency meeting. Perhaps it was about refugee relief.”
“In Kansas City?”
“U.N. has meetings in many places around the world and—”
“Olga, all the times I’ve seen them with bandages and bruises. They tell me they were, like, mugged or had a car accident or some shit like that, but they’re lying to me, aren’t they?”
“First, watch language. Second, I do not ask them their business because it is none of mine.”
“But it’s mine. It’s especially mine because I saw my grandfather lying in a hospital room, nearly dead, and I don’t know why. I want to know why. Seeing him like that… He’s been the most constant thing in my life since my mom died and my dad decided being a father sucked. And I thought I was going to lose Popi. I’m scared now. I’m scared that when he gets better, they’ll leave like they do all the time, and what if they never come back?”
“Maiya would never let that happen. Remember, she was young when her parents died in plane crash. She knows what that would mean for you, and she will not let it happen.”
“But something happened to Popi. And to her because she had blood on her. I know I told Mums I’d be all brave and everything, but I was terrified until Popi woke up. I was so scared.”
“I know, malyishka. I was scared, too.”
“You… You were?”
“Of course. I have known your ded since he was only a few years older than you. He was my student, but he is also moy droog. My friend. Da, to see him that helpless was not good. I would have protected you from that, because that is my job, but I also knew if anyone could give him reason to live, it was you and Maiya. When he realized you were there, he grew stronger, quicker.”
“But all I can think about is what if he’d died? What if I’d never have been able to talk to him again? Like my mom.”
“What I have to say may not help. Maiya would say this is Russian pessimism speaking, but reality of life is that your dedushka will die. Your mother was always going to die. All we can hope for is old age. Some achieve it. Some do not. This time, it was not your dedushka’s time. One day it will be, though I hope a long time from now. Now, accept that you had a hand in keeping him here with us.”
Natalia nodded. Olga made sense. In fact, this was the deepest conversation Natalia had ever had with her. Despite that, Olga’s answers weren’t complete.
“Do you know what they really do?” Natalia asked.
“They work for U.N. to make world better for you and other people’s children. It is noble calling, one you should be proud of. If that still does not satisfy, wait until Maiya is past this and you are a few years older. She will explain what she can.”
“But you can’t? Or won’t?”
“Malyishka, I know you were scared. But have patience. When time comes for you to know, they will tell you.”
“But will they?”
“They will do what they always do. What is best for you. Of that, you have no need to doubt.”
Natalia stared at the dainty handkerchief. She tried to smooth the wrinkles she’d put in it from her twisting it, but Olga patted her hand.
“Do not worry about old handkerchief, malyishka. It will launder. Now, you can go sleep, da?”
“I guess. Spaciba, Olga. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It is no problem, malyishka. Get some rest.”
Olga patted Natalia’s shoulder and walked her to the door.
Olga Lubova closed the door to her apartment, listening for the girl’s steps going up the stairs. Satisfied Natalia was well on her way to her room, Olga shed the tears she, too, had held back for days. Without her handkerchief, she blotted her eyes on the sleeve of her pajama top, went to her kitchen, and poured herself a generous vodka.
59
Logistics
Potomac Overlook Regional Park
McLean, Virginia
Edwin Terrell approved of the meeting place. The curve of the George Washington Parkway and the trees guaranteed privacy. Mai Fisher waited for him at the low stone wall, erected to keep onlookers from tumbling down to the Potomac River. She wore an expensive English raincoat—what else—for the drizzle, but her head was uncovered.
She looked over her shoulder when she heard his vehicle and went back to studying the view. Terrell parked next to a Mercedes 300D he knew she’d bought when she’d come to America in 1977. He wondered where she kept it, since it wasn’t at her house.
A long time ago, he’d been at the same crossroads she was now. That would have been ‘Nam and involved getting payback for losing a buddy. Sometimes the journey to the crossroads wasn’t as important as the path you chose. He crushed his cigarette dead in the ashtray, opened the glove box, and removed a flask.
The dampness started an ache in his knees when he walked to
her. He studied the scenery and handed her the flask. Mai took a good swig and looked at him.
“That Scotch is older than my granddaughter,” she said.
“Much older. You like?”
“It’s passable.”
“You swill too much Irish crap.” He took the flash from her and drank. “So, not a widow. Widowhood is cheaper than divorce, which you mentioned not long ago. Not being a widow, good or bad?”
“In the global scheme of things, good.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Watching his heart stop in the ER.”
“Speaking of the big picture, the feds got a good case against your patriot friend. Your doing, I assume.”
“No more than what Alexei gave them, which they ignored until they had a crater and a heap of rubble.”
He handed her the flask again.
“I’m not here to talk about that,” she said.
“Yeah, you want Fitzgerald. We have to give that some thought.”
“No, we don’t. I have thought about it, every fucking minute since the bomb.”
“Easy. I’m talking about planning. The FBI may not listen to their betters, but they’re tops in crime scene forensics. You can’t lure the guy somewhere and double-tap him.”
“You’re the consultant. Consult.”
“It’s gotta be someplace away from here but close enough your alibi holds. You’ll use a throwaway.”
“Snake, I’ve been in this business half my life. Don’t patronize me.”
He took her by the arm and turned her to face him. “Cut the superior attitude. I’m telling you what will keep lethal injection out of your future.”
“Let go of me.”
“No. You listen. You may have been a spy half your life, but you weren’t an assassin. If you do this, that’s what you’ll be, Baby, the coldest kind of killer. No shooting him from afar. It has to be up close and personal, but you can’t sneak up behind him and put a round in the back of his head. That screams murder. The FBI loves to hunt down cop-killers, so, you fucking listen and learn. Got that?”
“I got it.”
He gave her an ungentle shake and released her. “Say it again.”
Through clenched teeth, she said, “I understand.”
Terrell gave her the flask. After she drank, she handed it back, but he waved it away. She’d need it more. They sat atop the stone wall, facing the road, their arms and thighs touching.
“Why is this important?” Terrell asked.
“What does that—”
“You matter to me. I need to understand why you want to pop Fitzgerald when you couldn’t kill John Carroll before he blew up a building with people inside.”
The flask stopped on the way to her mouth. “Who told you that?” she asked.
“I know that brilliant mind of yours better than your dearly beloved, Baby. I don’t mind looking in there. I like what I see. He could never handle it. I don’t know when or where, but because I know you, you had an opportunity to kill Carroll and couldn’t. I need to understand the difference.”
She drank more whiskey and fixed her gaze somewhere across the road. With her RayBans masking her eyes, he could mistake her for the nineteen-year-old Directorate trainee he’d met what seemed a lifetime ago, a young woman with principles she’d vowed to uphold.
When she spoke, he was glad he didn’t get a glib answer.
“Fitzgerald killed people, let them be killed because he considered them less than he was,” she said. “Carroll killed people because he believed his government considered him expendable, disposable. Fitzgerald liked the killing. Carroll was still haunted by faceless Iraqis he’d killed in war. Fitzgerald killed by proxy for personal gain, under the color of law. Carroll was desperate for validation.”
She drank again and continued, “Carroll sat in jail in that shitty little town where the FBI found him and stuck to his guns when I tried to turn him. I offered him his life for the Patriot City network, and he stayed with his screwed-up convictions. Fitzgerald didn’t care about protecting and serving the people, only what he could get on people in power to enhance his position. Carroll will be tried, convicted, executed. Fitzgerald gets to sup at the proverbial government retirement trough.”
“Take it from one of those retirees, Baby, it ain’t exactly full.”
“It’s the principle, Snake. It’s because I found half a baby in the Becker Building rubble, a baby who wouldn’t have died if Fitzgerald hadn’t caused babies to die at Killeen. Most of all, it’s because Fitzgerald told a right-wing nut-job where to find my house and almost took everything that mattered to me.”
“So did John Carroll.”
“He doesn’t even know Alexei exists.”
“It’s the principle, Baby.”
“Carroll will die because I couldn’t stop him. Fitzgerald put Carroll in Kansas City with a cause and a purpose and a destiny he wouldn’t turn away from. That. Can’t. Stand.”
“He wouldn’t turn away, even for you.”
“Yes, and I’m tired of wallowing. Satisfied?”
“That you’re resolved? Yeah. I’ve got a suicide scenario in mind, but I need to set some things up. You wait for my signal and show when and where I tell you.”
“What’s the signal?”
“You still subscribe to the Post?”
She nodded, frowning.
“Every Sunday, they run personal ads in the Style section. Look under Women Seeking Women for an ad from Lonely in Arlington. The first number will be how many days after the ad appeared, the second will be the time, the third the number of a cabin at Big Meadows in Shenandoah National Park. Got that?”
Another nod.
“If you use a throwaway, I’ll give it to you then.”
“What else would I use except a throwaway?”
“His own gun ices the suicide cake. Can your Nathan guy find out if Fitz has a computer?”
“After the home invasion he caused, Nelson has had him under surveillance. He has a computer.”
“You’ll need to B&E his house and write a suicide note on that computer. In and out in fifteen minutes, tops.”
“Passwords?”
“You know the places people hide passwords. Do the note, save it where Hollis wouldn’t look, and cover the fact you used his computer.”
“Is that part necessary?”
“When did you ever turn down a B&E?”
“When I might be the prime suspect in a murder.”
“Fitzgerald is a control freak. A note goes to pattern and stacks the odds more toward suicide. Mention in the note how the loss of his career depressed him.”
“Why can’t it be a random crime?”
“Like I said, cops take cop killers seriously. Fitzgerald is the poster boy for that. If the FBI thinks some punk did in a brother agent, they’ll pull out all the stops. However, if that same brother agent eats his gun, they focus on the family and hope the world doesn’t notice FBI agents aren’t perfect. A random crime is easier, but a suicide means a brief investigation, so the family gets its benefits.
“I’ll stage it so he has alcohol in his system. You go to a thrift store and buy someone else’s clothes, but cut the tags out anyway. Do that soon, so the tags go in the trash near where you bought the clothes and are in a landfill by the time this goes down. Latex or nitrile gloves, of course. Take ‘em with you when you’re done. Put ‘em with the clothes. You take those off as soon as possible and dispose of them well away from the house. Shower for a long time. Wash your hair multiple times. Use bleach to clean whatever shower you use, with particular attention to the drain.”
“I could do that in a motel room, booked with an alias.”
“That works.”
An idea came to him. He considered it, rejected it, and considered it again. “Give me an honest answer,” he said. “Can you absolutely trust Lubova with your life?”
“Yes.”
“If you can find a way to use her, do it. She’ll u
nderstand what has to be done.”
“You hate her.”
“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t know her stuff. Separates you further from the deed. If you’re certain she’ll never tell Alexei or blackmail you, use her for an alibi, to clean, whatever.”
“She might have been Alexei’s mentor, but I pay her salary.”
“I’d give her a raise. How close have you ever shot anyone before?”
“A few feet.”
“You’ll be nose-to-nose with Fitzgerald. When a bullet takes out the back of someone’s head, particularly from inside the mouth, you get a lot of blowback. Your Suburban has a tan interior.”
“I’ll use the Mercedes. Why inside the mouth?”
“For a temple shot, the angle has to be precise, meaning nothing can raise a doubt Fitzgerald’s hand held the gun. He can’t be drugged because that’ll show on the tox screen. He’ll have enough alcohol in his blood to justify an impulsive act, but he has to be conscious for it. Is that a problem?”
“No.”
“And cops usually put their service guns in their mouths and pull the trigger with a thumb.” Fingers of his one hand drumming on his thigh, he continued, “He’ll be sitting down, you standing over him. You can’t angle the gun down. It has to be like this.” He demonstrated with his hand, fingers in the shape of a gun. “That won’t read any way except suicide even to the best forensics tech.”
“Gunshot residue on his hand?”
“Leave that to me. Now, I know you’ll be tempted to talk him to death, but the longer you stare a man in the face, the harder it becomes to pull the trigger. If you have to explain it to him, keep it short. Pop him, put the gun down—not in the blood splatter—and get the fuck out. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Visualize it, over and over, until it’s old hat, Baby.”
“I hear you.”
“Do you understand what this means?”
She looked at him, a smile touching her mouth. “I’ll become what Alexei, Nelson, even you, wanted me to be all along.” She laid a hand on his cheek, her mouth forming words.
